


A love that is homeless

by CarmenOnMonday



Series: Secret Love Song [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Drunk Dele, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Ouch, The Sun cover situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 19:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20179204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmenOnMonday/pseuds/CarmenOnMonday
Summary: ..Dele drinks too much while in Greece. The Sun gets the cover page, he gets the control.





	A love that is homeless

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago, I posted a story I wasn't happy about. Today, I realised. I didn't like it because I didn't give you the context, another story I started to write a few weeks ago. Only today I realised I was writing the same Dele, and together, those pieces will be complete. So I finished what I deemed unfinished forever, and here we go.

Harry bought them the first round.

“To holidays, Greek beaches, and beautiful ladies!” he toasted with a flourish, and they all raised their glasses. Robyn scrunched her nose, faux mad about Harry’s comment, but he leaned in and placed a kiss on her brow, and Dele could hear “you” mumbled. He turned away not to watch their intimate moment.

Ruby was sat opposite from him, her stare pointed at the people on the deck chairs next to them. She liked to know who’s around at any time and never rested.

Dele played with the glass in his hands briefly, only giving it half of a thought before he downed his colourful cocktail in one go. It was a taste of summer, this fruit flavour followed by an alcoholic bitterness, of stupid decisions and no consequences, and as soon as the liquor travelled down his throat, he could feel himself relax a bit.

A few more glasses, and he would be able to understand Harry’s sentiment.

A shadow fell on his face while someone stepped in front of the sun, covering it from his vision. “Are you going in?” Ruby asked, pointing at the sea behind her.

Dele shrugged, to which Ruby answered with an impatient hum.

“Later,” Dele decided. He wasn’t there yet.

His stomach was still in painful knots, and he loathed the idea of being in the spotlight, couldn’t imagine stepping out of the safety of his umbrella yet. He’d been here for only, like, five minutes.

He’d do it, he decided, he would. Just not yet.

Instead, he turned to Harry and interrupted the moment he was having with Robyn.

“Another one?” he offered and felt a flash of satisfaction at Harry's beam.

They were on holidays, he reasoned with himself, and on holidays, different rules applied. He was allowed to have a good time. He was _expected_ to have a good time. And so he shall have.

“That’s the spirit.” Harry grinned, reaching for the next full glass.

“Let’s get this party started!”

When Robyn wondered off to swim as well, and it’s just the two of them, it was easy to forget, to feel like in the old days of first drinks and first cigarettes.

The next cocktail left Dele pleasantly giddy.

Only then, when their beach adventure turned into a bro party, both of girls splashing in the sea waves far enough to forget about them, Dele finally fully appreciated his surroundings – the lush hotel and bar, beautiful tanned people all around, the sun on his face and the sand under his feet. Harry told him a joke after a joke, reminiscing Craig’s bachelor’s party Dele couldn’t attend because of the international break, and in only few minutes, he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Then they started watching people around – the guy on the right, trying to hide how he was picking his nose every now and then, giggling girls on the left bashful under the stare of men sitting by the bar. Then the children, falling down on the sand as they’re trying to catch balloons which escaped from their grip and making disgruntled faces every time they dropped to their knees. There was also a guy whose shorts were constantly slipping off his butt. It was hilarious, how he needed to hold them not to show his naked butt to the crowd around, especially when it turned out the kids were his, and he tried to catch them before they ran too far away.

Dele was laughing so hard his eyes started to sting, and he didn’t need much to fall into another bout of giggles, so he didn’t even notice when a drink turned into two, and then into three.

Even in his giggly state, Dele saw how Harry’s stare kept slipping away to the sea, in the direction of Robyn floating in the waves, all natural grace and glow. He looked absolutely smitten, just like Molly was with Craig, and that realisation only added to the pleasant warmth which was encompassing Dele’s mind.

“Go,” he mumbled. “I can’t take more pining from you.”

Harry didn’t need more convincing. He was up and ready to go in a second.

“And you? You’re not going?”

Dele was good where he was.

“Find you later.” He closed his eyes and leaned back on his deck chair.

He fell into a quiet slumber, music and all the voices falling into the background, and enjoyed the peace.

_This is lush_, he decided, and lost the track of time, fantasizing of another Greek holidays and just lying there, bare of any cares.

Something cold and wet fell on his biceps.

Dele jumped, startled, ready to fight whatever was attacking him. He swatted at the offender, and only when he managed to shake off the source of uncomfortable coldness, he recognised the hand with long pink nails.

He squinted and was met with a pouty face. It sobered him up better than a cold shower.

Just like that, he fell down to the earth.

“I missed you out there,” Ruby said with an exaggerated sadness in her voice, but irritation clear on her face.

Even when it was just the two of them, they still stayed in their roles. There had never been even a gram of honesty in their words, but at first, it’d felt more natural to keep the pretenses up at all times, even with nobody else listening, not to forget themselves, not to force themselves to switch between roles. They were in the relationship, just not a traditional one; still in a relationship, with the right gestures and the right words. Even when the sentiment behind them was missing.

Dele’d noticed the absurd of it a long time ago, and at this point, it was weighing heavily on his shoulders, especially when they were joined by some particular teammates of his, but he didn’t want to be the one messing up with the careful balance of their arrangement.

And he knew exactly what Ruby meant by asking for attention. He could decode her messages pretty easily.

_You’re not keeping up your part of the deal. This is not what we agreed on._

How dared he forget.

Truthfully, he had forgotten recently. He didn’t have the privilege anymore.

But not yet. He wasn’t ready yet.

Dele swallowed the lump already forming in his throat and quickly stood up.

“I need another drink,” he decided in a rush, and stormed away before he could hear any protest.

He had to push his way through the crowd, and then there was a line to the bar, but never in his life had he felt more detached from his surroundings, separated by a wall built out of the mix of barely contained blame covered by ill motivated determination.

The people next to him were just the background noise.

Once at the bar, he stared at his hand, shaking slightly when he raised a shot glass offered by a barman, and couldn’t quite decide what’s the reason – nerves, maybe, anxiety at being suddenly brought out of his thoughts, or maybe a different kind of stress, the one going together with the sick feeling in his stomach, but maybe not, he wished, maybe it was something unimportant, meaningless, just the food here or the local alcohol.

Because he certainly didn’t have the right to feel like a victim here. He was doing the right thing. This was something completely separated from his private life, just another type of job responsibilities, and no one could blame him for playing has part, no one had the right to feel hurt. Dele wasn't a bad person. He wasn't.

He repeated that hoping it sticks.

But he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to forget about the other side of the coin, about the people he wasn’t taking into account and trust he was exploiting, and his own fucking vulnerable heart which already regretted and could barely take causing someone else to feel inadequate when in fact, he was absolutely perfect, and-

And so he raised a glass to his mouth.

The alcohol burned his insides. He closed his eyes at the feeling, rode the wave of calmness it offered.

It only lasted a short moment. It wasn’t enough.

“Another one,” he shouted, ignoring the knowing stare of two guys sitting by the bar. Maybe they had recognised him, and judged him for his action. That was okay. He was only doing what was expected of him. He was just doing his fucking job.

Maybe they hadn’t, and they just saw some careless guy taking his holidays too far.

Or maybe they could see a small child, reaching out for anything that could offer him an escape from the vision painted in his brain.

_I'm going to drive him away,_ he thought hysterically. He’s going to make him leave, just like everybody else leaves, and it’s going to be entirely his fault.

He downed the vodka placed in front of him, made an attempt to order another one and gathered all his strength to ignore the blue eyed warning somewhere in the back of his head, to forget broken promises and anniversaries they were supposed to spend together. Was he actually honest when he promised that? Could he had been honest, when he knew, all this time, that he wouldn’t resign from the façade which kept his career (_his sanity? is it keeping his sanity-_) together?

He didn’t even feel the next shot travelling down his body.

No more pleasant burning. And no more scruples.

He raised his hand for one more drink. It appeared in front of him, he downed half of it and let the rest spill on his chest. It didn’t matter. He was immune.

He was ready.

Somehow, he found himself back at his desk chair. He tripped and fell down on it, but didn’t feel the pain. He let himself fall and surrounded himself to the emptiness.

Someone interrupted it, forced their way into his bubble of nothingness, but he let that happen.

There was a hand caressing his shoulder. It felt alien and gave him chills, but Dele didn’t care.

There were lips moving against his, too soft and artificially smelling to be the one part of lips he wanted to feel on his own, and Dele shook his head half-heartedly, but was too tired to fight it, too tired of it all. He felt dirty, but he just took it, took it, took it.

An absurd thought crossed his mind, how he wished this would produce some money shot, cause there’s no way in hell he could offer them more than this. He laughed to himself at it. He was done.

It was all for the best.

The sun kept burning his skin, and he was done, he was so tired, and he rested his eyes, just for a second, just not to have to see the image that made him nauseous.

The darkness that followed was the most awaited relief.

* * *

_“Fuck, Dele, why would you-“_

_“Is he okay? Harry, is he okay? Should we...?”_

_“He’s just wasted. Had a bit too good time.”_

_“Ruby, oh my god, don’t you see- Harry, should we call-“_

_“Don’t! He’ll be all right. I’ll stay with him tonight, go.”_

* * *

“Well, if that doesn’t bring some memories...” Harry joked bitterly from where he stood in the doorway.

Dele would've commented on it, would've pointed out how usually it had been Harry in the position that he was in at the moment, if he could raise his head and catch enough break to speak.

He couldn’t, he was too busy spilling his guts.

He was dying, in a long excruciating process which felt fully deserved, so he relished the feeling of his insides being torn apart and wished for it to cleanse him from all the blame he carried. If he could throw it up together with the content of his stomach, if he could just force it out of his body, burning on the way all his insides and leaving behind nothing, he would. For now, he could only imagine that’s what was happening. He hove even harder with the next wave of sickness and let it trash him.

When he was done for a moment, he managed to lean back and rest against the cool bathtub. He closed his eyes, exhausted, and pretended he didn’t feel on himself Harry’s concerned look.

Harry walked in; Dele could hear him cleaning the bathroom and then there was a cold washcloth on his face. ”Here, it’s okay” he muttered while sorting Dele out.

Dele would've shaken him off, if he had any strength to; he couldn’t take the soft touch, when it only reminded him of the other set of hands on his body leaving a trail of uncomfortable goosebumps; at the same time, he couldn’t take the gentle caring Harry offered, the opposite of what he felt worth of.

Still, instead, he stayed quiet. After all, maybe he deserved this kind of torture too.

“Why would you do that?” Harry’s incredulous voice rang in the silence.

“Forgot myself, had too much fun.” Dele answered in a mechanic voice. To be honest, he wouldn’t have believed himself if he had been in Harry’s shoes.

“Yeah, you looked like you were truly enjoying drinking himself into oblivion alone at the bar.”

Dele winced, but didn’t let it change his line of defence.

“I’m allowed some down time.” Every word falling from his lips was making his throat burn like salt on a wound.

“Dele. Del.” Harry waited for him to open his eyes, Dele could tell. When he couldn’t take the apprehension anymore, just seconds later, he relented. The light blinded him and where he should've seen Harry, he only saw colourful smudges. “Who are you trying to kid? It’s me you’re talking to. Maybe I would believe you if I didn’t know that for one, you hate being drunk in public, since always, and two, you’re not a cheater. ”

It hit him like a ball kicked straight into his face.

Because maybe he was one. _Depends on the definition_, Dele thought, and he figured that the way guilt ate him alive - his skin crawled and his lungs hurt and his heart beat painfully - that was how cheaters must feel like. Wasn’t that the proof that he was one, after all?

Harry stood up and threw the washcloth into the sink. Then he sat down next to Dele; he was a one big embodiment of concern.

“What happened?”

Dele shrugged. With the way his head was pounding, he wasn’t in the right mood to have a heart to heart. It was what it was.

“Sometimes you’re worse than a five year old, Dele, I-“ Harry sighed. “I want to be here for you, but you’re not making it easy.”

“...sorry.”

“No, don’t. Not the point. Goddamnit. I used to think I had this older brother thing all worked out, and now-“

“It’s not your fault,” Dele whispered.

“What is it then?”

Dele looked at him helplessly. He didn’t have any answer.

Harry sighed again and reached into his pocket. He looked for something on his phone before handing it to Dele.

“You’re not gonna like it,” he warned and then showed him the cover page of the Sun.

Dele laughed out loud. He was terrified of the sound that came out of his mouth, void of any happiness, somehow desperate, the disconnection between his lack of emotions and the joyless laugh that echoed in the bathroom making his head spin, and yet, he couldn’t stop laughing.

He laughed so hard that soon he hove into the toilet again, tears mixing with his sick.

He got exactly what he had wanted.

“Ruby must be ecstatic,” he breathed out after he was done, like it was the best joke he’d ever delivered.

Harry looked at him like he was crazy.

“See, that’s what I’m walking about! Why are you doing this? For her? I don’t believe you-”

“I couldn’t do it sober,” Dele interrupted him, somehow off-topic.

“So you decided to use the liquid courage? To cheat on your boyfriend in public? This is not you, Del! When you first said you wanted to bring Ruby, I thought she’d be here as your friend, she’s not a bad girl, I get why you couldn’t take Eric with you, but... You don’t need a cover, and you know I would never ask you to pretend you’re someone else. It’s not like you were suddenly in danger of being outed, nothing changed since last month and yet-“

“Did you read the comments?” That was what interested Dele the most.

“Yeah, they say the typical stuff. How you surprised no one, and that maybe it’s you who’s guilty of drug abuse, and that you act like a stereotypical dumb footballer.” Harry was visibly upset.

Dele wasn’t. It was exactly the story he had thought it would create. He was just one of many fame obsessed footballers with a model bird and too much money to have even one spare brain cell.

Once again, he got what he’d wanted.

“Do you have my phone?” Harry nodded and reached into his pocket.

He hesitated before he gave the iPhone to Dele. “Eric called me.”

That was the first sentence Dele truly understood and it made him straighten his back, listen more closely.

“Asked how you were. I told him you’re still in drunken coma. He wants you to call him when you’re up for it.”

_Would I ever be, though?_

“Will do,” Dele muttered without any conviction.

There were far too many notifications on Dele’s phone to go through them at the moment, but he searched for one name only, and quickly found the right thread.

_Come home, Del _was the only new message there, received just an hour ago.

It hurt more than a million angry ones.

Dele locked the phone without answering, and in his peripheral vision saw Harry shaking his head in disbelief.

He wasnt’t feeling well enough to argue with him yet, but if he had, he knew exactly what he would’ve said. He practiced it in his mind times and times again, preparing a line of defence.

The deal was, there were things that needed to be done and pretences that needed to be kept up. Behaviours which were acceptable, and, more importantly, those which were desired.

It had been the terrible incident with a sex tape that tipped him off. Yes, it was embarrassing, yes, he didn’t feel like stepping out of his house for weeks but he still had to, so he braced himself for the judgement and faced the world. He didn’t look anyone in the eye until the novelty of the drama died down, but what followed was so much different than what he expected. They laughed at his idiocy, they looked down at him, he was deemed a typical football star. _Look at him, a walking cliché_, they said. _Look at him following the path_. Look at an image, at a product, at a star.

And a person – the real, alive person hidden behind it all – remained unnoticed.

When he thought about it for a bit longer, it was a perfect situation. Nobody noticed terrified kid trying to deal with the pressure of playing in the top league. Nobody noticed awkward teenager forced to act like an adult: to make decisions, keep relationships, choose the deals, manage finances. Nobody noticed a boy looking for real friendship when most of them were just contracts, nobody noticed a conflicted soul wanting to be loved. Nobody noticed a young footballer trying to figure out why his eyes kept escaping to that big blond dork he played with.

After so many years in the industry, Dele knew. With this farce weighing on his mind he felt ancient - too bitter for a twenty three year old, too worn down with his experiences already feeling like a baggage always carried on his shoulders - but he knew. Nobody had to tell him when things needed to be done; no need for a reminder from a third party, no waiting for a disapproving glare of an agent.

When life got quiet for a bit, when seemingly everything fell into right places and happiness wasn’t disrupted by even a slightest setback, Dele knew shit would surely hit the fan soon. He wasn’t allowed to be permanently happy; the bliss never lasted long, and so he couldn’t pretend everything was okay when he could feel the danger looming right behind the corner.

He couldn’t control much, but he could control how he played his part and what was written about him.

He could manage the uncertainty, an inevitable part of any relationship, if _he_ could be the one who made the wrong move; not his partner in crime, not the world around them.

* * *

Knocking on the window tore Dele away from his thoughts. He blinked, disorientated, and nervously looked around.

Behind the window, it was Eric, smiling gently at him.

Dele steadied his breath and tried to catch up with reality. He was in the car, parked outside their house; that’s where his dreaming mind brought him mindlessly, in the meantime providing visions of their confrontation.

Dele shook his head and cleared his throat. He turned the ignition off and unfastened the seatbelt. Eric opened the door from the outside even before Dele could reach his hand.

“Hi.” Eric gave him his trademark small smile, and just like that, Dele’s breath got stuck in his throat again.

The house looked exactly the same way it did when Dele left. Nothing had changed, apart, maybe, from their relationship.

Dele nearly tripped on his way in. While the street was calm and quiet and the neighbourhood seemed already asleep, Dele was buzzing with anxiety. He opened the door with his sweaty hand, bracing himself for what would greet him inside.

What did greet him inside was _home_.

Eric closed the door after them, and the hug he offered as soon as they’re safe from anyone’s eyes, the searing kiss, it all made Dele feel even worse. Still, it was the touch he loved, it was the perfect aid after other hands touching him, so Dele drank it in, even if it made his eyes prickle. He buried himself into the offered embrace.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Eric murmured into his ear, the beard tickling Dele’s cheek.

He let out some incoherent noise.

“I’ve been worried. Harry must hate me for spamming him.” Eric laughed, and to Dele’s surprise, it didn’t sound forced or fake.

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” he mumbled cause it felt even worse now, the silence he kept. It was hard to explain without uncovering too much.

“I always do.”

Dele didn’t know what’s going on - why Eric wasn’t shouting at him? Why was he still willing to greet him in the house they call theirs?

“Are you okay?” Eric asked.

Dele let out a chocked groan. “Am... I? Okay?”

“That’s what I’m asking. Are you okay?”

“Have you- Have you seen the-“ It was hard to even mention the photos.

It took Eric a moment to answer. He cleared his throat and Dele could feel it in his own chest.

“Yeah. That’s why I’m asking. Are you okay?”

Dele took a step back. He couldn’t stay in Eric’s arms, he couldn’t take his care.

“I- Eric. I had to. I love you, but out there, I-“ It was hard to explain to the love of his life why he needs to keep seeing another person in public, why it’s her who gets to attend weddings with Dele, why he didn’t discuss it in advance, why he let her touch him. At the moment, it was hard to convince himself, but- “I had to.”

Dele crossed his arms protectively and braced himself for the storm. His fingers dug painfully into his waist where he keeps squeezing them, but his eyes stayed dry.

“I had to decide what kind of footballer I want to be.”

“The one remembered for his extensive drinking and his perfect fake girlfriend?" Eric gave him a pitiful look. "I don’t blame you, Del, but you, so scared, so vulnerable, out there... did you even have fun on Molly’s wedding? You know, I sent Molly and Tom a gift, they loved it. Said it was a shame I couldn’t make it to the wedding. I- I don’t remember being invited.”

He wasn’t even angry, he was rather hurt, and yet, still, first and foremost, protective of Dele. Dele’s heart broke at Eric’s composure.

“And how that would go? Dear Tom’s homophobic friends, this is Dele and his boyfriend Eric, famous footballers. They’re gay for each other and fuck in the locker room, but you can’t tell anyone or they’ll be finished.”

Eric flinched. “Okay, okay, I get it! That’s why I didn’t protest when I realised you were never going to invite me there. But a cover page of the Sun?”

“Since when do you care about tabloids?”

“Since they show your self-destructive episodes.”

Dele couldn’t take the worry in Eric’s voice, he couldn’t, it only made him more ashamed and guilty, more unworthy of his love.

Still, above all, he knew he did what was right for his future.

“It was just a business decision. I'm over it. The mess is already cleaned up, and now they have their typical football star, I’ve got the control.”

“Why do you care so much? Why do you do this to yourself?” Eric wondered.

He peered at him, observed him, and Dele felt like his stare pierced into his chest. Eric looked at him like he wasn’t done, wasn’t convinced at all, still full of arguments, but he sagged and visibly let it go.

There was only one thing Dele regretted here. He hadn't talked with Eric over the phone because mulling over this for the past few days felt like a purgatory and he wanted to serve his sentence, but now, he couldn’t stop himself from finally apologizing. Eric deserved it.

“I’m sorry it looked like- like I cheated. It’s just business. I swear, I have to do this, I have to, but I still love you, and it didn’t change a thing about us. I can’t imagine ever loving anyone else. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Only you. Please, Eric. Please, forgive me.”

Eric shook his head and opened his arms.

“Silly boy. I know it’s- I know _you think_ it’s something you need to do for your career, even if I don’t see it this way. I know you do.” Dele let him lead him to the couch. Once there, they fell into their typical position, with Dele tucked into Eric’s side. Eric whispered into his ear: “I’m just worried. Do what you need. Just always come back to me later, okay?”

Maybe he was disappointed at Dele’s radio silence, but that was all; other than that, Eric just accepted him, accepted his messed up nature, and that was what made Dele squirm.

"Don't overdo it, Del," he added later.

Things like these, loves likes this, they didn’t happen to boys like Dele. If not for the ugly side messing it up, it would be perfect - _too perfect, not real,_ Dele’s mind screamed - so maybe it kept it real, maybe the moments when Del felt like the worst person in the world were needed. But then, Eric would react the way only he could react, with understanding and care and it got too perfect again, and Dele felt fear raising in him. Again.

The circle of fear was never broken.

Dele forced himself to calm his breath down. What was done was done. Eric still loved him – too much – and Dele loved him back – not enough, not out there, but here, he _burned_ from love – and with preseason starting soon, he’d be able to forget about everything. He’d forget about things being too perfect or too messed up, about appearances and reality and control escaping from his hold.

Football was too big to be touched by Dele’s personal drama, had always been. In the end, there was always that thought keeping Dele sane.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feed the overly productive author with some feedback, she's at the end of her creativity this week.
> 
> Now, I can rest. This is how it was supposed to go. What do you think?  
(I think the second part reads better now, so feel free to go there again.)  
[dieretmoi.tumblr.com](http://www.dieretmoi.tumblr.com)


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